


anamnesis

by duchamp



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-05-05
Packaged: 2018-06-06 12:33:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6753934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duchamp/pseuds/duchamp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a split life, being an up and coming reporter by day, and being someone to rub shoulders with a wanted vigilante by night. But all the classic texts and self-help jargon preach the same thing: nothing good comes easy. And everything sweet always has to come with a side of bitterness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	anamnesis

 

 

 

I chose this home because it’s what I know. 

ANNE CORAY, _The Egyptians Had It All Wrong_

 

 

 

It’s a habit. Waiting. And, lately, it seems to be all Karen does. She’ll be at the foot of her door, leaning against the wall, one eye peering through the peephole. She’ll be perched by her apartment’s one tiny window, cracking it slightly open, feeling the breeze wafting through, scanning the roads outside. She’ll be in bed, checking the clock, covers too twisted and heavy, sleep a faraway thing. Waiting for Frank.

He sends tips her way; anonymous letters sent to Karen’s office at The Bulletin, chock full of addresses and PO-box numbers. (Once, besides the letters, several boxes of photographs implicating some judicial higher-ups in some nasty shit were delivered as well. “Jackpot!” Ellison announced at that, commending Karen’s use of cultivating fruitful sources.)

And then there’s the calls to a burner phone she keeps. There’s the quiet conversations over take out, plastic forks and spoons balanced between bruised fingers. There’s the cold drone of panic that hits her when she reads headlines about The Punisher being in a nasty down and out brawl, nearly having his luck run out, his insides spilled out and head kicked in, and all Karen can think is _Frank, his name is Frank._ Not The Punisher. Not some title created to promote fear in the hearts of sinners.

It’s a split life, being an up and coming reporter by day, and being someone to rub shoulders with a wanted vigilante by night. But all the classic texts and self-help jargon preach the same thing: nothing good comes easy. And everything sweet always has to come with a side of bitterness.

Karen supposes it’s God’s way of evening things out. Keeping the scales balanced. Like the Lady of Justice, who stands outside the courts of law, blindfolded.

 

 

 

“You’ve got to protect yourself,” she bites out, Frank’s broken wrist cradled in both her hands. The hydrogen peroxide Karen pours liberally over the wound bubbles up something fierce, mixing with Frank’s blood. The bone sticks out at an odd angle, infection not a long shot.

Frank’s chugging down a bottle of Shiner, biting his tongue, his threshold for pain a thing to be marked down for the history books. “Yes ma’am,” he breathes, military boy, crew-cut wisecracking inherent in his voice.

The assurance he gives her isn’t a lie, despite him continuing to go out and plug bad guys and pick fights any chance he gets. Karen knows Frank always tries to come back to her not completely shredded to bits, nowadays. Even if that wasn’t always the case.

 

 

 

There’s tinsel in her hair and a reindeer headband on her head, holiday spirit spring in her step. She’s heading home from Foggy and Marci’s Christmas party when she sees him for the first time since the shootout on the roof.

He’s a crumpled heap on her doorstep and Karen drops the pile of presents she’s holding in the crook of her elbow. It’s Frank. Frank, broken. Frank, who she proclaimed was dead to her. Frank, who’s very likely going to take his last breath on her doorstep and quite literally shake hands with the Grim Reaper if she doesn’t pick her jaw up off the floor and do something.

Karen’s inner monologue runs the gamut as she drags Frank inside by his coattails, soaked through with gun oil and gasoline and blood. _Keep quiet. Keep calm. Say nothing. Get him inside. Get him stable._

He’s semi-consciousness by the time she gets him to her bathroom and into the tub, the faucet running when she goes to grab her med-kit. Frank groans her name, the syllables muffled by his split lips and the saliva dribbling down his chin. “I’ve got you,” Karen says, racing back to the bathroom, kneeling down on the tiles beside him. “I’ve got you, you shitting piece of work.”

She never thinks to call Matt for help. That’s how far apart they are, now. That’s how much of a train wreck that relationship has become, that Karen can’t even bring herself to ask him for a favor. Even with Frank’s life on the line, his soul being tied down to his body thanks to nothing but her feeble hands and a sewing needle and thread.

 

 

 

The lamp is turned off. The thermostat is turned up. Karen’s bedroom is a comfortable cocoon shuttered away from the November cold outside.

Frank’s lying next to her on his side, wrist set and breathing evenly, sleeping soundly. His arm is draped over Karen’s midsection, his fingers spanning along her ribs. She’s got her forehead touching his. Wisps from the now overgrown hair at his brow tickle her skin, but she doesn’t mind. “Frank?” She asks. He doesn’t move a muscle.

“Right before I go to sleep I see your face,” Karen says, confident speaking to the darkness. “I see it when I wake up, too. And when I’m getting ready to go to the office. And when I’m out researching a story. Even when I’m drinking at Josie's. All my days are spent worrying about you. Doesn’t that hold any goddamn weight in your mind?”

 

 

 

“One day you’re going to tell me who your source is,” Ellison teases, a stack of mock-up’s of The Bulletin’s next issue in his hands. Karen knows he’s only half serious. Confidentiality, and all that.

“Maybe I will,” she demurs, clicking at her retractable pen, held between her thumb and forefinger, over and over. It’s a nervous tick she's never been able to shake.

 

 

 

Here’s the thing: Karen doesn’t find people very often. And, usually, when she does, they drift away from her. Matt’s water under the bridge. She only sees Foggy for weekly drinks or for the rare holiday party. Ellison tries to be there for her as much as he can without crossing the line between mentor, boss, and friend.

Frank’s her constant. Which just goes to show how piss poor Ms. Karen Page’s social life is, with her trying to hold onto this undefined thing between them with both hands. But it’s tough work. Especially when Frank keeps trying to clean up all of Hell’s Kitchen’s worst via his own personal arsenal, and keeps getting pummeled into mincemeat every other week.

“Dinner’s getting cold.” Frank’s looking at her from across the table, chopsticks in hand, digging into his egg foo young. Karen picked it up earlier from her favorite hole in the wall Chinese joint.

“What was it this time?” She asks, still playing with her untouched food, gesturing to the freshly cleaned cuts on Frank’s face. Three on his left cheek. They’re deep. He’s lucky he won’t need stitches.

“Went to the meatpacking district to flush out a group of trusted capos in the Maggia’s ranks.” Frank shrugs, looks down. He rubs at his neck. Squeezes, knuckles white. Karen would almost venture to say he looks self conscious. “One of them pulled a knife from his waistband. My arm was still hurting from that tumble with the Aryans. I wasn’t fast enough to block him before he got in a couple licks.”

“You’re fortunate he went for your face and not that arm,” Karen says. And, okay, her tone is pretty damn acidic. But it’s late on a Friday night, she’s operating on three hours of sleep, and the last draft she took a pass at for Sunday’s paper was complete trash. “Doubt it could have handled more damage.”

Frank puts down his chopsticks. “You’ve got something to say, say it.” The words are even, measured. Karen just wishes she could get more of a rise out of him. She’s itching for a fight. Why tonight, why now, she doesn’t know.

“Just tired of playing nursemaid, Frank.” She settles on saying. And, ah, there it is; an almost imperceptible clenching of his jaw, and Karen knows she’s made her point.

Frank nods, closing the white carton in front of him, food set aside. “I do my best.” It’s an answer more than it is a dismissal. The answer, as Karen interprets it, as she knows it to be, is this—It will not end. No matter what you say, no matter what you do. I’ll never, ever stop. But Frank doesn’t say those things. Because Frank’s not unnecessarily cruel.

“You're...” Karen’s throat constricts and she swallows the words down. She squeezes her eyes shut, hot tears leaking out. She only opens them again when she hears Frank get up out of his chair and cross the length of the table; when she feels his hand on her shoulder. Frank’s standing over her, silent, waiting until she says her piece. “You’re holding yourself together on a prayer,” Karen whispers, tilting her head up to look him in the eye. “Sheer adrenaline and blessed luck.”

“Karen,” Frank says. He leans forward, pauses. Karen’s mouth goes dry, and she wonders what he’s holding back. “I should go.” Frank tightens his hold on her shoulder for a second. Then he drops his hand, goes back to his place setting and gathers up his trash from dinner to stuff it into a plastic take out bag. “I’ll throw this away.”

He’s heading for the door and Karen tries to talk herself into getting up and going after him. He’s twisting the knob and she can't seem to make a convincing enough argument to get her feet to move. “Wait.” She turns, back no longer to him, and Frank’s dropping the small bag of trash on the carpet, walking back to her fast. He doesn’t hesitate when he bends over where Karen’s seated, pressing his mouth to hers.

He’s never kissed her before. She’s never kissed him. But God, she’s thought about it. Has he? Was he thinking about it during those phone calls, those late night dinners, those times he spent beside her in bed—while he was bruised, battered, barely patched back together and desperate for companionship?

Frank’s fingers tangle in her hair, both his palms framing her face. The choice is laid out in front of her. Pull back. Laugh it off. Make an excuse. Let him go. Nothing good can come out of this. It’s a quick decision. Karen arches her neck back and opens her mouth.

 

 

 

Actions follow you. Like an eager child reaching for your hand or a dog looking for crumbs from your cupboard, you can’t just brush them off. Karen knows what it’s like, to watch a human being breathe their last and know that you’re the one responsible. She wears the knowledge on her body.

Yet it takes one to know one. And so, Karen’s never called on it until she meets Frank. He can see right through her; can see that Karen’s eyes are too focused and her hands are too steady when they’re curved around the trigger of a gun.

The acknowledgment, the recognition, the desire to be seen—Karen won’t let it go.

 

 

 

Ellison scraps her article from Sunday’s paper. Karen knew he would. He replaces the space with cartoons. Then he shrugs, says it happens, and buys her coffee after.

“Something happen last night?” Ellison asks once they’re back at the office, drinks in tow.

Karen's starting to think she might need to reconsider her career path. She doubts it bodes well for a journalist to wear their emotions on their sleeve so easily. “Good morning to you, too. Now, why would you think something happened?”

Ellison shrugs. “Don’t know. Maybe fifteen plus years as an investigative reporter has helped me to pick up on people’s body language. You seem lighter. Happier.”

“Maybe I finally got a good night’s sleep,” Karen offers, taking a sip from her coffee. Black. No cream, no sugar. Frank’s finally worn her down.

“Maybe,” Ellison allows. He doesn't seem even remotely convinced.

 

 

 

November turns to December, then December turns into January. And January brings a new year, new opportunities, new promotions. For Karen, it brings recognition. Being awarded by the local guilds for her work in investigative reporting is still a surreal experience. Especially when it involves having to dig up jewelry and formal wear she hasn’t bothered to wear for some time. Ellison did mention Karen’s appearance would reflect on The Bulletin.

That’s how she finds herself staring at her reflection in her bathroom mirror the night of— powdered, polished, steamed dress, the works. An alien has taken over her body. There's really no other explanation. Karen’s about to tell Frank as much, but he beats her to it. “Would you look at you,” he says, standing in the doorway, voice a husky rumble, sounding like the vowels and consonants are trying to scramble their way into some cohesive order.

Karen shakes her head, self deprecating, smoothing her hands down the length of her abdomen. The black dress she wears cinches at the waist. Form fitting, but still conservative. “It's just a dress,” she says, waving off Frank’s compliment. She spritzes perfume on the insides of her wrists. “Hopefully, I can clean up well enough to fool all the big wigs and they don’t snatch back the award they’re planning on giving me.”

Frank comes up behind her. “I think you'll do fine,” he murmurs, resting his chin on Karen’s shoulder. He pulls her back against him. “You earned it, sweetheart. There’s no take backs.”

“You’re biased,” Karen says, leaning into Frank’s touch. She nuzzles his cheek, rough with five o’clock shadow, and breathes him in. His hair smells of her shampoo. Karen never knew such a small thing could make her so happy.

 

 

 

Wilson Fisk’s released from prison. Quietly, on a Wednesday morning, completely devoid of fanfare. He walks out onto the streets of Hell’s Kitchen with shined shoes on his feet and a limousine to pick him up. He’s already at a newly allocated penthouse before any news stations get a whiff of it.

Karen overhears WHiH New York give the sound bite over lunch. Her stomach drops and her muscles knot. She knocks over a stack of edits on her desk in a rush to get to the employee restroom, the acrid taste of fear on her tongue.

Doubling over white ceramic, smelling of Lysol from the janitor’s rounds, Karen retches. Nothing comes out, though. Her chicken salad stays where it is. “Get up,” she says to herself, wedged between the stall door and the toilet, legs bent at the knees. “Pull yourself together, and get up.”

Time to get to work.

 

 

 

“That’s the fourth one this week,” Frank mentions, referring to the threats mailed to Karen’s apartment; cards decorated with newspaper cutouts and red ink. Stop now or you’ll be sorry, they say. Stop now or we’ll make you. Unfortunately for the senders, it takes more than that to frighten her.

“It comes with the job,” Karen responds. “Just like being a patchwork quilt of cuts and bruises comes with yours.”

Frank laughs at that, elbow deep in manila folders filled to the brim with research. He arranges everything alphabetically, stacking them into Karen’s new mobile filing cabinet. He’d offered to help earlier, when he saw she was swamped. “You want me to put you to work,” she said, “I’ll put you to work.” Then she passed on the never ending backlog of paperwork to him.

“Yeah, okay,” Frank concedes. “I should’ve seen that one coming.” He labels the tab of the last file he finished putting into order. The cap of the black marker is wedged between his teeth as he writes, C.S. 2017, indicating Karen’s corroborating sources for past publications at The Bulletin.

“You should’ve.” Karen cocks her head and uncrosses her legs from where she’s seated in her armchair, closing her laptop’s screen. The sight of Frank sitting on her couch, doing something so maudlin but so useful for her, touches something inside herself. Some hidden, untapped part. Bright and unexpected. Walking over to the couch, Karen takes up the space alongside him, the marker and work from him, and his hand in her own. “Listen,” she says, “you play your part and I’ll play mine. I’ve long since stopped trying to police what you do. I don’t need reminders of how I’m putting myself in harm’s way. We live in Hell’s Kitchen, Frank. Everyone’s in harm’s way. No matter what walk of life we come from, no matter what we do, we’ve all got bull’s-eyes on our backs.”

 

 

 

“Do you ever think of leaving?” Frank asks her, sweat slick and catching his breath. He’s stuck to her, stripped, bare in every way. Another appendage, another heart.

Karen doesn’t think she’ll ever be able to separate them, even if she wanted to. She considers her answer, glancing down at a scar along Frank’s chin. An old injury. A thin line, now. Scabbed over, on the path to healing. Karen knows what he wants her to say. He wants her to say, yes. Yes, she does think of leaving. Of making a life for herself in a small town, far away from the stench of the Kitchen, while he stays waging a one-man army.

But she’s already had her answer to that question long before she crossed the tape on a hospital floor to get to him. “No,” Karen says, succinct, moon kissed in the night’s light. “No, I don’t think of leaving.”

**Author's Note:**

> Leave it to Daredevil to kick my writing into gear for the first time in months. These two came out of nowhere, and I haven't been this much of a delicate flower about a ship since, well, ever. I finish Season Two and all I'm thinking about is Frank helping Karen file documents to put a dent in her massive workload at The Bulletin and Ellison being Honorary Shipper #1 without even knowing it. Lord help me. I'm not supposed to have this many feelings over these two damned idiots. Find me on [Tumblr](http://highsmith.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Much thanks to Jen, [jm_serendipitous](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jm_serendipitous/pseuds/jm_serendipitous), for giving this a look over before I posted. Read her stuff, know what true talent looks like, etc. Shameless plug and my civic duty's done.


End file.
